The city came for the small branch a few months after we moved in.

It had lazed across the sidewalk, seeking out the sun, for decades I am sure. It had trained those who crossed its path to duck; muscle memory causing the motion to become second nature for those who crossed its path regularly.

Until one day someone (probably looking at their phone) ran right into the outstretched branch and it put them in their place.

The man from the city knocked sheepishly at our door, explained the situation, informed us he would have to cut the branch back, stop its assent over the “public space” in order to protect people too busy looking down to see what was right in front of them.

I was beside myself.

Why should the tree pay the price for someone’s lack of attention?

I knew the tree would be alright but I was offended on its behalf.

I needn’t have worried.

The tree was hatching a plan.

Slowly, patiently, it put out feelers, manifesting today in a full grown offshoot.

I marvel at the steadfast certainty with which the tree marches on.

It moves slowly because time is on its side. It’s lifespan is encoded deep inside of itself, and it is in no hurry to prove its point.

The wild part of it laughs heartily in the wind, placates mans desire to confine its growth to neat little squares on a property map, to keep it from infringing on “public space.”

The tree humors the man from the city, does not understand my concern, and defies the person looking down by outliving us all, continuing on, and growing up, towards the sky.